


Real Hunger Has a Real Taste

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Canon-typical references to bestiality, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Neediness, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Telling Quentin What To Do Because He Loves It, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: “He likes it when he’s naked and everyone else has their clothes on,” Eliot tells Margo.“Everyone else?” she asks. “How many people are we talking?”Quentin likes being told what to do.





	Real Hunger Has a Real Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This is set sometime after Season 1, but not in a particular timeline because it’s essentially about how much Quentin wants to give head, and that is timeless. 
> 
> Thanks to **capeofstorm** for the beta. Not American-picked.

Sometimes, you just want  
something so hard you have to lie about it,  
so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute,  
how real hunger has a real taste. 

– from _Lies About Sea Creatures_ by Ada Limón 

Margo’s next to him, sitting at the end of the bed, one of her legs hooked over his. They’re sharing a bottle of red – not a good wine, but after time in Fillory any wine at all is acceptable. The unsubtle tannins around his teeth make Eliot almost nostalgic. They drank bad wine just like this when their biggest problems were not flunking out of Brakebills and ennui. Except Quentin’s sitting on the floor, between Eliot’s legs, his head occasionally butting against Eliot’s thigh. And everything’s different with Quentin there, because Eliot is aware of him all the time. 

He’s not saying much, occasionally sipping the wine. Eliot plays with his hair when he’s not too distracted by Margo. Wants to touch him. Even though he never seems to _stop_ touching him. He thinks about how Quentin’s mouth tastes, and the way Quentin’s breath will flutter when he eventually pulls him up – probably by his hair. 

It’s a good thought.

“So I had to officiate at that stoat wedding. Stoat? Marmot, mink, some little ferrety thing. Stoat and cobbler’s daughter. Could barely fucking see the stoat,” Margo is saying. She’s fiddling with her hair, curling it between her fingers and letting it drop. 

“You miss Fillory,” Eliot says, realising it suddenly. “You’re antsy.” 

The party downstairs gets a little louder – a roar of enthusiasm, a clink of glass. “Of course I’m fucking antsy. Who knows what Tick will do when I’m not there.” She sighs. “But I’ll take a few nerves for some wine and a goddamn hot shower.” 

Quentin nudges Eliot’s thigh a little as he turns his head. “How did it work? With the stoat?” he asks. 

“You mean fucking?” Margo rolls her eyes. “I didn’t ask.” 

They’re all quiet for a second, thinking about it. “Somehow it’s a lot easier to imagine fucking a bear,” Quentin says. 

Eliot snorts. “Yeah, babe, we all know what you’re into.” 

“You’re not a bear.” Quentin looks up at Eliot. He’s sitting low enough that the top of his head meets Eliot’s crotch, his face framed by Eliot’s thighs. It’s a good look. 

“I’m sure there’s a timeline where you’re with a bear,” Eliot says. “I can just see it. He’d have a little harness for you, and he’d wear chaps.” 

“There’s also one where Quentin’s with an actual talking bear,” Margo adds. “It also has a little harness for him. They’re probably both on the council and they’re a pain in my ass.” 

Quentin always goes red when they tease him, but he’s laughing too. Eliot smooths the hair back from Quentin’s forehead, runs his thumb over Quentin’s lips. Quentin nips at him. 

“He likes it when he’s naked and everyone else has their clothes on,” Eliot tells Margo. 

“Who – the bear?” 

Eliot shakes his head. “No, this Quentin. Our Quentin.” 

“Everyone else?” she asks. “How many people are we talking?” She’s leaning back on her elbows now. Not exactly distracted from her nerves, but intrigued. 

Eliot shrugs. Lately, it’s just him and Quentin most of the time, Eliot with lapfuls of naked, flushing boy; or wet-mouthed, between his legs. 

Quentin ducks his head now. “I’m not an exhibitionist,” he says. 

Eliot leans forward, so he can touch Quentin’s cheek, slide his hand down to Quentin’s chest. “But you look so cute when you’re naked,” he says. “And you like it a lot. You like it when you’ve got all my attention, don’t you?” 

Quentin’s flushing, but Eliot’s got pretty good at reading his heat and his silences. Quentin’s the right kind of flustered – eager, interested. 

“He’ll get you off,” Eliot suggests to Margo. “That’ll relax you. You’ll need to tell him what to do, but he takes instruction so well.” 

He’s looking at Margo now, not Q. This suggestion would have been a good one a year ago, but relationships are always changing – and now he’s with Quentin so much, and he isn’t sure. He doesn’t want to push her boundaries, step on her toes. But she’s smiling. Letting him take the lead for now. 

Quentin’s spluttering. “H-He’s right here.” 

“I know, baby,” Eliot says. He leans back languidly. “Take your clothes off.” 

“I...” Quentin stays between Eliot’s legs, playing with the hem of his shirt. Downstairs, someone cheers, then there’s an uneven round of applause. 

Eliot tugs Quentin’s hair, which is pretty much always the right move. Quentin tilts up, into the touch, makes a little breathy sound in his throat. Eliot pulls harder, until Quentin’s making an undignified squeaking sound. 

“Come on,” Eliot says, and he stand up, pulling Quentin with him. Quentin looks up at him, turning towards the hand in his hair, shivering a little. Eliot tightens his grip, keeps his fingers close to Q’s scalp. His mouth is wet, his eyes huge. Eliot lets go of the hair, caresses his cheek. He’s so fucking willing to let Eliot take charge: how did he ever survive without him? It makes Eliot feel oddly possessive – not that he doesn’t want anyone else to have Q, but that if anyone’s going to hurt Quentin it’s going to be him. And it’s going to be in a way Quentin likes. 

“Red, orange, green?” Eliot says. The stop light system is a blunt instrument, but sometimes it’s all you need, because Quentin turns his face into the hand against his cheek, and says, “Green,” into Eliot’s fingers. He sounds almost offended as he says it, like _Of course, I always want to do what you say, Eliot, don’t make me question it._

Eliot smiles. Yes, he can read Quentin pretty damn well, but it’s always nice to have it confirmed. He looks over Quentin’s head at Margo. She doesn’t seem as charmed by Quentin as he is, but she winks at him. 

“Clothes off, Q,” Eliot says, stepping away from Quentin. He sits back down next to Margo, slides an arm around her waist. She’s deliciously warm, and touching her makes him realise how much he’s been missing her. High King is pretty much a 24/7 job for her, and he and Quentin have been pretty wrapped up in each other. He thinks that he needs to make sure he’s balancing everything – everyone. 

It’s all so hard and so rewarding at the same time. 

Quentin undresses like he does everything – so eager that he’s clumsy, tripping over his own feet. It’s not a sexy striptease, but Eliot feels something inside himself relax when Q’s naked, like this is the way things are supposed to be. Quentin’s fighting shyness, looking over at them. Hair falling into his eyes, hunched over, clenching and unclenching his hands. Cock half-hard. 

“He is like a fucking golden retriever,” Margo says. “So needy for your attention.” 

Eliot smiles. “And he’s a good boy.” He takes Quentin’s hand, runs his fingers over the knuckles, tugs him closer. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to eat Bambi out. You’ll do what she says.” He draws his hand down Quentin’s thigh, feeling him twitch at the touch. “You’re going to love it.” 

“Fuck,” Margo says. She looks at Eliot, at Quentin. 

“Go on,” Eliot says, gently. “Kneel.” Less an instruction than giving Quentin permission. He sinks so gratefully to the floor it seems a shame not to keep him there all the time. 

“I’m – I’m going to need you to say something.” Margo wets her lips, and finishes off the last of the wine. “I’m going to need know you want to do this.” 

Quentin looks at Eliot, that anxious glance he gives him when he’s naked and vulnerable and loving it and afraid of how much he loves it. Eliot nods. “Go on, babe.” 

He rallies, turning his attention to Margo. His eyes are huge, his lips still parted. “I want to...” he fumbles, like his tongue’s suddenly too big for his mouth. “I want to do what you say. God, this is so fucking embarrassing. You’re both dicks.” He coughs, fingers twisting on his thighs. He’s still got his eyes on Margo. “You’re so scary and so beautiful and right now I just want... I want to do what you tell me, and make you come.” 

Margo snorts. “Good enough.” She grins, “Well, Q, your boyfriend certainly brings out an attractive side of you.” 

She wriggles out of her underwear. Hikes her skirt up, and shimmies down the bed a little so her ass is at the very edge of the mattress, and Quentin’s face can slot easily between her thighs. 

Quentin looks at her from under his lashes. Wets his lips. “Go on,” Margo says. 

Eliot feels himself get hard as he watches Quentin dive in. Margo draws in a breath, and grabs Quentin by the hair. He winces: her long nails scratch his scalp. “OK,” she says. “Jesus. Points for enthusiasm. But while Eliot may like that vacuum-cleaner mouth, I require a bit more finesse. _Lick_ first. Slow circles around my clit. Give a girl a chance to get into it.” 

Quentin does take instruction well. Eliot can see his head dipping back down to Margo’s vulva, tongue moving more slowly now. Margo nods. “OK, good. Yeah, like that.” 

Eliot flops down onto the bed, listening to her voice. This was a _good_ idea. Bambi likes to tell people what to do; Quentin likes to be told. 

“Mm. A little closer to my clit. Good boy. No, don’t flick your tongue like that. Even pressure. Yeah. Keep up the rhythm. No funny stuff. Nice and steady, like that – ah...” 

She lies back on the bed next to Eliot. Neither of them are looking at Q now, he’s only present because Eliot can hear the very faint sound of his tongue in Margo’s vulva, and hear the way Margo’s breath is beginning to hitch. She’s flushed and beautiful and Eliot leans over and kisses her languidly, tasting the wine on her breath. Suddenly they could be anywhere in time – their first year at Brakebills, that summer they spent partying in the Hamptons, on the _Muntjac_ in Fillory. All that exists is their two bodies on a bed, touching like there will never be barriers between them. Being with her is always like coming home – if home was a place he loved, and wanted to be. Eliot touches Margo’s face, traces the curve of her cheek, feels her mouth open to him, the dart of her tongue. 

They lean their foreheads against each other, breathing each other’s warmth; the flutter of eyelashes. “Mm,” Margo murmurs, her voice a tether to Q. “Yes, honey, faster now. Faster. You should – you should press a finger up against my vagina. No, not there, shit, how can that be hard to find? ...Yes, finally, _there,_ just keep it there, and now lick – you can use some of that goddamn suction now, over my clit – oh – _oh_ – g-good...” 

Eliot listens as her breath quickens, feels her draw away from him into the heat of her own body, as her hips begin to rock, as she thrusts against Quentin’s mouth. He sees Q steady himself by gripping one of her hips, and then she’s fucking his face, riding Quentin’s mouth, her hips stuttering, thighs twitching. Eliot holds her hand, and she digs her nails into his palm, her words turning into gasping, incoherent syllables. 

She’s silent, lip caught between her teeth, Quentin’s head clamped between her thighs. They’re both still, Quentin’s tongue pressed wherever it needs to be. Eliot feels the moment as something uncoils inside her, and she comes. 

A long silence. The sound of voices downstairs, music. 

“Fuck,” she says. “Fuck, Eliot.” And Eliot’s pleased to take the credit, because he’s the one who set this up, who trained Q. He runs his finger down her neck. 

There’s another noise from the party – someone shouting in the hallway. It feels like an intrusion. Eliot keeps forgetting anyone else exists. 

Then Quentin’s crawling onto the bed. He’s got Margo all over his face, his lips slick with her, the tip of his nose wet, the jut of his chin. He looks blissed out too, as though this is all he needs – being on his knees, pleasing his friends. 

It makes Eliot smiles. He draws Quentin to him, pulling Quentin on top. Quentin is all elbows and limbs, his cock pressed into Eliot’s stomach, and Eliot feels so goddamn fond – he doesn’t just _love_ Quentin, he’s so unspeakably fond of him, like Quentin is a pet who has learnt all the right tricks, and so fast. 

Quentins’s so fucking sloppy, too. It’s good Eliot finds it endearing. He pulls Q closer, into his arms, and begins to kiss Margo off him. He tastes the salt, the familiar musk of her pussy, the feeling of that slick against his lips. Eliot’s own breath stutters in his chest, with the intimacy of it, the potency. Quentin pants into his mouth, licking up into him. 

“Jesus fuck, you’re so good,” Eliot says, twisting his fingers in Quentin’s hair, and Q shudders, embarrassed, hard as a rock. He presses his face into Eliot’s neck – he’s so hot and damp with spit, with pussy. Eliot thinks _puppy_ again, thinks _pet_ , with the same fondness. 

“Are you going to get me off too?” Eliot asks, caressing Quentin’s face. 

Q’s between his knees almost before he says it. So eager it’s almost worrying. Like he always wants to there between Eliot’s feet – his own cock hard against his stomach as he kneels for Eliot, licking Eliot’s cock into his mouth. 

Margo kisses Eliot again. “He’s really starting to grow on me.” 

“Mm.” Eliot’s distracted by Quentin’s mouth, which... OK, so Margo has a point, Quentin is not great at finesse, but he’s enthusiastic, and it’s intense. In the past, Eliot has given him some pretty clear instructions, and he’s internalised them. His mouth is firm, constant, and he’s really getting better at taking more of Eliot’s cock into his mouth. 

Eliot lies back, lets him work. He laces his fingers around Margo’s. She’s watching him, her expression soft, a tenderness she gives only to him, and rarely. “What are you thinking?” 

“I like you both so much,” Eliot says, raw truth coming out, because Quentin’s mouth is in exactly the right place, and oh, his tongue against the tip of Eliot’s cock. Fuck, fuck. 

“Pussy,” Margo says, smiling. 

Eliot shudders. It’s not long before Quentin is spitting ineffectually into the empty wine-bottle, and rubbing his mouth. 

“Come up here,” Margo says to him, adjusting her skirt and panties. She looks put together again, like she could easily step out of this room and take charge of a small country. Eliot fondles his cock lazily, sliding it back into his pants. He feels like a mess, and he can see why Quentin likes that: it’s a handing over of power, too, when you’re naked and undone with someone who isn’t. 

Quentin lies between them, eyes wet, pupils huge. Eliot pets his cheek, his shoulder. Margo smooths her skirt, takes Quentin’s hand. “Do we get him off?” 

“Oh, yeah, we’re not assholes.” 

“Yeah, you are,” Quentin says into Eliot’s shoulders. 

Margo snort-laughs. “That’s true. We are. Do you want to come?” 

Quentin rolls his hips. He’s hard as fuck, but he seems more concerned with wallowing between them, nuzzling at Eliot’s jaw. He nods. “I...” His breath catches. “I’m leaking all over the bed.” 

“Jesus,” says Margo, “you sure are,” and takes his cock in her hand. “This OK, honey?” she asks. 

Quentin nods, bucks into her hand, tilts his face toward her. She kisses him, and it’s unexpectedly hot, Quentin’s damp, salty face tilting towards her wide mouth. Eliot draws closer, watching the slow movement of lips, how Margo nips at Quentin’s jaw, at the tip of his tongue. Quentin shudders. 

He’s not wrong – he’s leaking pre-ejaculate down his cock and dripping onto his belly, and Margo’s hand glides against his shaft. She doesn’t have big hands, but Quentin’s cock fits into one of hers easily, and he fucks her fist, first slow, then erratic. 

They hadn’t really thought about where Quentin’s ejaculate was going to end up, so it gets on the sheets, and Quentin’s belly, and Eliot’s pants. Margo rolls off the bed to clean her hands and find a box of tissues. 

Even though dealing with the come-stained pants is going to be a pain, Eliot doesn’t have the energy to give a shit. He’s tugging Quentin into his arms, and Quentin is kissing him, sloppy and open-mouthed. He runs his hands over Quentin’s skin, the heat of him, the sweat on his arms, the silky hairs on his stomach. 

Margo sits on the edge of the bed, watches, reaches over to pat both of their heads. Eliot feels like he could stay here forever, holding the warmth of Quentin in his lap, so loose-limbed and so relaxed, finally. Maybe he’s a narcissist, but Eliot really loves feeling how much Quentin _wants_ him, _needs_ him. 

At last Quentin says, “I’m so thirsty I think I might pass out.” 

Eliot strokes his thumb along his cheek. “Let’s get you a drink, then. You want to get dressed or do you want to come downstairs like that?” 

“Fuck you,” Quentin says, and stands up, a little unsteady, looking for his pants. 

Margo takes Eliot’s hand, pulls him to her. She hands him a tissue so he can scrub uselessly at the come-stain. When he’s off-balance, she presses her lips to his ear, “You’re so fucking in love it’s embarrassing.” 

He can’t argue.


End file.
